


When In Rome

by entanglednow



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-15
Updated: 2010-06-15
Packaged: 2017-10-14 17:32:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/151730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world pauses for a while, and Anna indulges herself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When In Rome

Indulgences are like choices. Once you realise you can have them, they change you. Anna likes the way the sheets curl around her, the way they clutch her skin when she moves. She likes the way they're rich like wine. Colours, she missed colours, she missed the way colours look, the way they feel.

Anna eventually slides free of the sheets and leaves the bed. She gets distracted almost straight away by the sensation of her bare toes in the dark red pile of the carpet. All the tiny little pieces of sensation that mean nothing to her angel senses. Anna likes to think she's learned to respect what it's like to have skin.

Her clothes are laid on the chair by the door, neat and familiar. She leaves them there, drifts over to the wardrobe and opens the door. She stands there, naked and in no hurry to change that, fingers drifting back and forth through the dark mess of expensive clothing.

Then she slides one of the pristine dark shirts off a hanger, all crisp fabric and sharp little buttons. She slides it on, and it's cool and soft on her skin, the slide of her fingers in the sleeves a strangely enticing sensation. The collar curves round her neck, a smooth, sharp fold. It smells like Crowley.

She pulls her hair free, lets it lay stark and bright against the black. Angel all over the darkness. She feels like that in his bed sometimes, staking a claim on a section of the dark. Soft, secret dark things under her tongue.

The furious protective righteousness of angels. That's something she was made with. She was made to love all things. But she loves some more than others.

She fastens two of the buttons, likes the slide-shift of the fabric against her bare breasts. The sleeves are just the right length. She spends a moment fiddling with the cuffs, deciding whether to button them or leave them. She leaves them. Likes the way they look left wide on her arms. Likes the way she doesn't quite look right, not as neat, not as perfect. All edges of cloth and sharp seams against pale skin.

Then she runs her fingers through the tie rack, decides on red, red that will run into her hair. She wonders, absently, if she's choosing a colour close enough to blood to appeal. Before deciding it doesn't matter, sliding it under the collar of her shirt - his shirt - and making a precise Windsor knot against the bare skin of her throat.

It doesn’t feel like a costume. She feels like something that belongs in this house, in this room. Something bright dressed up in the rich, expensive darkness of demons.

She isn't sure if that should be wrong. But it feels right, it makes her feel right.

She turns to the mirror, looks at herself. At the black tails of the shirt skimming her pale thighs. The loose edge of the tie.

"I think I like that better on you."

Anna turns around, cloth fluttering over her wrists.

Crowley is leant sideways in the door frame. He's dressed impeccably, no floating cuffs, crooked collars or bare slices of skin. He doesn't need clothes to belong here, they're not a disguise for him.

But then maybe clothes will always be a disguise for both of them. In their original forms things wouldn’t be so easy. Touching wouldn't be so easy - and it's far too easy.

"I like your clothes," she says simply, and smiles. Because it's the truth.

He raises an eyebrow, all soft amusement that always seems on the edge of something else. Demons.

"So I see, angel, leave you alone for five minutes and you're playing dress up."

Anna takes her feet across the carpet, the soft hush of her toes in the depths of it. Until she can catch the perfect thick edge of Crowley's jacket and press herself into it, into him.

"It seemed appropriate that I matched the room," she tells him.

"Like a spy," Crowley rumbles out, mouth sharp and eyes soft.

Anna slithers her hands wherever there are gaps. Crowley is too warm to be human, even if she only had her hands to tell and she couldn’t smell him, taste him, see him. She'd still know what he was.

It doesn't stop her from kissing him. Mouth tasting like cherries and darkness and sin. And scotch.

"I could be," Anna says simply. It's hard to play when you refuse to lie. But they are both very old and they have played games before. Anna is better at them, since she was human.

She is better still since she started sharing a demon's bed.

He makes her...more.

She wonders if he thinks the same.


End file.
